Right now, I have a ghostly look, apparently. People push plates of steaming food at me, cold imported beer. To put the color back in my cheeks. They smile and buy me cigarettes, with an abundance of mercy and concern. They are alarmed by my freaky staring. I cry most in the morning. Morning is when time cuts like a blade, when awareness is a sinsister Surrealist prank, my fraudulent self mocking my own fragmented self. I realize I am withdrawing and feel ashamed, like they are safe in their circle of talk, and I am out in the open air sipping smoke, leaning against the aluminum siding of the house, wondering how a summer day could be so brutal cold. It's straight gray, they talk about the banality of evil, I cling to legal poisons and smile around my discontent.